


Grantaire's Soliloquy

by Isabel_Wall



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU: Grantaire survives the barricades, Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Era, Death, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabel_Wall/pseuds/Isabel_Wall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh my friends, my friends forgive me; Down my throat my poisons ran; though they spared me from the grave; I'll never see you live again"</p>
<p>Due to sheer coincidence, luck, and one random act of misplaced mercy, Grantaire escaped the barricade alive. 4 months on, he wanders Paris in a waking nightmare: living without Enjolras. Alone in the world with nothing left but his name, Grantaire struggles to live an empty life, wishing more than anything that he'd died beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grantaire's Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea I had while listening to this haunting cover of 'empty chairs at empty tables', written from Grantaire's perspective: https://soundcloud.com/thatgavinfellow/empty-chairs-grantaire  
> Grantaire chose to die with Enjolras rather than live without him, so I decided to explore what would happen if he'd never gotten that chance.  
> Warning: this is not a happy fic

“How would you like to live with your soul in the grave?”- Wuthering Heights

Grantaire died at the barricade on June 6th 1832. 8 shots stopped his heart while he slept soundly on a table. A waif bearing his face wandered the streets of Paris, haunting the same spot he died 4 months ago.

 

Under the raucous glow of an inn where the innkeepers always watered down the beer, a ragged man sang his lament to deaf ears. Bruises coloured his knuckles, dried blood coated the underside of his dirty fingernails, and his clothes reeked of wine and sweat.

“Gamblers.” A well-dressed man declared as he passed, looking on the drunk with blatant disgust. “Such fools to bet their lives when they know they can’t win. Don’t look at him dearest, he doesn’t deserve your sympathy.” His wife peered with morbid curiosity at the unshaven hermit as he staggered along the cobbled streets, clutching a wine bottle like it was the only thing he had left. As though sensing her gaze, he turned and met her stare with grey eyes devoid of light and emotion. A shudder of revulsion ran through her delicate frame; she pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth and sought her husband’s side.

“What a ghastly man!” She cried.

 

The tavern at Corinth thrived, tables full of the young and old alike sharing anecdotes and small talk over elder wine. Tucked away in the corner, dark knotted curls half-hidden by shadow fell over the rim of an absinthe bottle. Eyes passed over the gloomy corner, no one willing to acknowledge the dregs of society. The odd member of the higher classes voiced loud opinions, affronted that such base company was allowed to mingle with fellows of their stature, but people were mostly content to ignore the offending table. Of course, rumours abound regarding the man’s identity flew amongst the café regulars. Speculation over the cause of his misfortune and why the landlord allowed him to stay grew into legend. Some supposed he was the landlord’s son, wilder tales explained that he was a crime boss to whom the owner owed a great deal of money. The dark man in the corner table became a ghost story. When walking by the table, if one listened very carefully, folks said that one could hear anguished sobs amongst the din.

“Say, whatever happened to the schoolboys that used to meet here?” A haughty man with an air of wealth asked the barkeep one night.

“I wouldn't know anything about that Monsieur, I bought the place very cheap after that spot of bother in June.” The barkeep explained, pouring the man another drink.

“You mean the uprisings?”

“There was a barricade just outside this door would you believe. The National Guard soon cleared it, left this place a right old mess. Blood and broken furniture everywhere.” The man accepted his drink and cast a sweeping glance around the mismatch of tables and chairs in the café, some obviously purchased to replace those used on the barricade.

“They seemed an intelligent bunch, it's a pity young people are involved with all manner of ideas.” The ghost at the table watched their exchange with dead eyes, grip tightening on his bottle. The man at the bar looked with distaste at the darkened corner, revolted by the torn, unwashed clothes. Leaning over the bar, he made no effort to lower his voice.

“If you want that stain removed, my fellows and I would be happy to lend you a hand.” The landlord shrugged.

“Ain't doing anyone harm. As long as he's paying, he can stay.” The haughty man despaired to imagine how any scruffy nobody could afford to stay and drink all night every night. Maybe he was some kind of con. In truth, his money, much like his life, had been granted to him through sheer force of coincidence and a random act of misplaced kindness.

 

It was 2 months after the barricade fell. Marius went about his daily business as usual, continuing his late father-in-law’s rounds of charity. Every time he passed the poor in the gutter, starving and clamouring, he could only see himself as he was before Cosette, a poor man in rags blending with the relentless tide of misery and woe that shaped the background of Paris. To the polite society of Paris, he was an oddity; a Baron stopping in the street to speak to the scum of the streets. But stop Marius did, he even crouched and touched hands with frail and pox-ridden children. Even the most charitable of the wealthy elite did none of these things, they preferred to throw money, caring not how they gave. Cosette tugged on his hand, pulling him towards two young children cowering in a narrow street. Though afraid at first, her soft voice and kind eyes coaxed them out of hiding. Cosette was as free with her love as she was with her money, giving to all in need of kindness and humanity. She'd converse for hours with fishwives and factory women alike, listening to their fond tales of their children and handing banknotes without hesitation should the tales turns sour. Marius handed the children money and directed them towards a bakery where he knew the owner took pity on street urchins. An ugly retching noise caught his attention, even amongst the bustle of busy Parisians. A dark haired man in rough clothes doubled over in the alleyway, his body violently rejecting the poisons he forced down his throat. Charity only stretched so far for most people. As far as the public were concerned, drunkards brought their suffering on themselves. But something about this man made Marius’ heart ache, he was just another victim of life’s balanced die, dealing with his rotten lot in the only way he could. A forgotten conversation hovered in the forefront of his mind.

“I desire to forget life.” The memory of Grantaire said, what seemed like an age ago. Those words a mantra in his head, Marius approached the drunk.

“Monsieur? Are you al- Grantaire?” The man looked at him, eyes wild and bloodshot and tragically familiar. “You are alive! This is wonderful! I thought you had perished with everyone on the barricade!” Marius gripped his arm, breathless with delight. The two sole survivors of the June Revolution stood in the alleyway, one plump with good fortune and love, the other hollow and ruined, aching with loss. In short, how Marius could have been if he hadn’t found Cosette.

“Here.” He said, pressing 500 francs into Grantaire’s palm. “God has saved us both this day, live the life he spared.”

 

Marius never saw, so blinded by optimism and bliss, that Grantaire didn't survive the barricade. His body woke from his drunken stupor days after that fateful day but his soul had died long before that, leaving only a clockwork shell to meander under the guise of living. His little heart still beat in a desperate attempt to reanimate a corpse long dead. Fingers traced an etched message in the battered table, ‘Courfreyac adore…’. The second name was illegible. Something had chipped away at the surface, leaving splinters exposed. He leaned back, let his eyes drift shut, the whirlpool of reflection pulling him into its sweet torture.

 

Joly frowned, resting his chin on his hands to fix Bossuet with an appraising stare.

“You need to stay with me?” Bossuet grinned, a trite sheepish.

“I helped a fellow who was down on his luck.” He explained, drawing laughs from the group.

“You appear to have adopted his luck.” Jehan observed.

“He’s a pleasant young man.” He offered

“That has cost you your future in law.” Joly countered. Bossuet threw his arms wide with cheerful abandon.

“Law is no longer my lot in life, the world is full of possibilities!” He declared. The group cheered, Bahorel standing on a chair to raise a toast.

“To those possibilities!” A chorus of laughter and cheers followed his toast, a younger and happier Grantaire raised his bottle to join the toast, warm in the company of his friends. Sat apart from the rowdy bunch, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfreyac conspired over a pile of pamphlets. They raised their eyes in unison at Bahorel’s triumphant shout. Courfreyac laughed and saluted them, Combeferre smiled fondly and even Enjolras let his stony countenance slip, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a faint smile. What Grantaire would have given have that fondness directed at him. Months of baiting him in meetings, desperate for every stolen second of attention, all for naught in the end. He’d known how their story would end, he'd told them over and over. Blinded by their youthful hope, they'd spiralled towards their destruction with voices high on camaraderie.

A tear rolled down his cheek, tracing the curve of his mouth before falling to the table. The ghost of a smile upon his lips. Who knew how long it had been since he'd smiled last. Cold and unfeeling in the face of true passion, numb and empty in the face of its absence.

He staggered through his doorway, head smacking against the wooden frame. The small dingy flat he called home; it knew his regrets and his pain and it mocked them. How many times had he seen golden curls and eyes full of fire and song reflected in the cracked mirror, silently judging, blaming him for not being there?

“It should have been me.” He whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “I had no need to live, God has made a mistake.” His throat burned with the words he so needed to let out. “Life grants no bargains. It is cruel and unchanging. Why should I live and you die? These people, this country you spilled your blood for, they go on as they always have. Who among them knows your name, tell me Apollo, where's the nobility in that? The glorious world you died to see rots in the mud. And so do you.” Blood-soaked gold in the dirt. Just another foolish schoolboy on the barricade. Without him, the world kept on turning. People walked the streets while their blood lingered in the cobbles. Not a single one knew their names, not a single one cared. But Grantaire remembered them all. Is that why life rooted him to this damned place? As long as he existed, so did they. How could he give in knowing that by doing so, he'd erase every trace of them? Slumped on the floor, cradling his knees, imagining that it was Enjolras beside him. Oh you always said that life can be fair and just but how can it, when the living loves the dead?

 

A young handsome army officer, with a neat uniform and fine moustache. He had held Grantaire’s life at gunpoint but, tired and worn by the bloodshed, had decided to let him go free. Did he think that was mercy? That it was kindness? That sparing one miserable life redeemed him in the eyes of God? One finger on the trigger, a quick end. That would have been mercy. Instead he left him trapped in this wretched torment, wandering as half a life. Waiting for a dawn that would never come.

 

He'd woken, face down on the dusty floor, with drums thundering in his head. Surrounded by death on all sides. Each face he saw, each one he recognised, was another shot in his already broken heart. Combeferre, wearing a soft smile, with 3 rips mangling his stomach. Shy, quiet, lovely Jean Prouvaire next to him, mouth open as though in prayer, blood spattered through his long hair from a gaping wound in the back of his head. He'd been unable to even look his death in the face. Bile had risen in his throat, his body far too numb to even react. His feet shuffled forward of their own accord, he could do nothing but look into every broken face one by one and feel the ache of every loss. Joly and Bossuet lay side-by-side, their faces turned towards one another as though in deep conversation. A boyish grin frozen forever on Courfreyac’s face. Feuilly’s dark coat ripped open by 5 bullets, surprise still hauntingly visible in his wide eyes. Bahorel was the only one with his eyes closed, the first and last time Grantaire ever saw him peaceful. His progress became more sluggish with every blow, but he had to drive himself forward, he had to see his face one last time, see it bloodied and broken and…he came to the smallest body in the line. Somehow, Gavroche looked even smaller in death. Like Courfreyac, he smiled in the face of his fate, laughing as though the bullets were feathers. Next to him, a girl he didn't recognise, serene as an angel as though she were merely sleeping, despite the dark stain on the front of her shirt. Grantaire had stood, his eyes transfixed on the boy, paralysed with shock. His heart had been pulled in every direction, anger and despair and revulsion all ripping into him, warring for control. Then, the army officer had entered the morgue, dragging something heavy along the floor. The stench of death and decay refreshed anew with the disturbance. He turned to meet the officer’s eyes, but his gaze was drawn instantly to the sight of golden curls. With a heavy thump, the officer dropped Enjolras’ dead body on the dirty floor and reached for his pistol. The barrel of a loaded gun wavered inches from Grantaire’s forehead but all he could see was the broken, beautiful corpse on the floor at his feet. His legs wobbled and gave way, sending his knees slamming into the hard ground. Enjolras’ clear blue eyes stared at the ceiling he could not see, his lips slightly parted as though in wonder. Grantaire had never seen him look so innocent. The Crimson flag he'd brandished like a war banner clutched in his fist, darkened spots of blood staining the fabric. Grantaire’s mind screamed and writhed, flooded with anguish as he knelt in front of his soul. But on the outside, he was silent and calm as he leaned forward to press his palm against Enjolras’ chest. Cold and hard as marble.  He coughed a feeble laugh. The splendid statue, so beautiful he could have been carved by Michelangelo. 8 bullet holes marked his body, he counted and felt each one. 8 people had elected to rob the world of the only bit of good in it. 8 people had murdered Grantaire that day. The cold rim of the gun touching his forehead had vanished, without him even noticing it was there. The officer, fine with murdering children and gods, had found himself unable to kill Grantaire.

“Go.” He'd commanded. But Grantaire would not spare him a glance. He lifted Enjolras’ hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across his palm, too afraid of staining something so perfect to administer the only kiss Enjolras would ever receive.

“Go, now.” The officer demanded again, pointing his gun at Grantaire, as though he were afraid of death. As though he hadn't already died right there the moment Enjolras’ heart had stopped beating.

 

4 months on and the world was far from still. Rain poured from the heavens, running in rivulets down Grantaire’s tiny window. Faces flickered in the patterns. Eyes blamed him, looked on him with disgust. His existence was a 4 month old stain. Startling blue eyes pierced him from the window, droplets forming the disdainful grimace of perfect lips.

“You always hated the rain.” Grantaire told him. “Joly wouldn't let us out for any Amis business. He said ‘we'd catch our deaths of cold’. You couldn't stand to be cooped up like that. We always argued more when it rained.” Flashes of Enjolras, alive with righteous fury while Grantaire could do nothing but gape in awe. “That's why I loved the rain.” Their arguments had always been pointless. You could sooner teach an elephant to jump than get either of them to admit they were wrong. It was the thrill of the conflict that drew him in, Enjolras had never looked so beautiful as when he was powerful with rage, believing every impassioned word he was saying. He was born in the wrong era, he should have been rallying troops into battle with his inspiring speeches. To imagine Enjolras still and silent, to imagine his expression peaceful and his posture soft, was wrong and unbearable. He couldn't exist like that, he should have burnt out like a glorious supernova, not have been dumped in the dirt like a plague victim. Grantaire's chest tightened and his head grew heavy, the temptation of alcohol-induced unconsciousness was beginning to beckon. He could picture them all, standing over him, disgusted with the disgraced remains of their society.

“I'm sorry.” He croaked and succumbed to the darkness.

His dreams came turbulent and fragmented. Phantom voices; laughs that turned to screams; a barricade that stretched through all of Paris, rising like the sun. They played through a monochromatic film, broken by the occasional splash of colour. Crimson blood falling from sapphire eyes. A pale pink hair ribbon, tied neatly in a bow, covering a deep gunshot wound. A dark figure knelt on wet cobbles, surrounded by 8 faceless men in army uniform. Grantaire tried to move, tried to run toward the man but the air was thick as stale gruel. The kneeling figure raised his head and stared right at him. It was Enjolras. The looming officers drew their pistols. He struggled and flailed, pushing against the invisible resistance. He screamed and sobbed and pushed and pushed but neither Enjolras nor the faceless officers heard him. A volley of gunshots shattered the spell. He sprinted towards them but they turned, no longer faceless. 8 sneering reflections of his own face laughed at him, standing around the broken body of the man he loved. He was back in the wrecked room, staring at the remains of the only thing that made his life worth living. He woke screaming for a man that would never hear him again.

 

“Let it be known to the world that I, Courfreyac am in love.” He’d announced in the most irritating sing-song voice, throwing himself into an unoccupied chair.

“It is better not to involve yourself with love.” Grantaire had replied wisely, casting a glance over to the stiff figure at the corner table. The group had ignored him.

“Darling Courfreyac, who do you love?” Joly had asked, chuckling in the face of his friend’s dramatic flair.

“I love a great many things. I love revolution, I love my friends, I love good wine and fine women. Or is it fine wine and good women? No matter, I am in love with love!” He’d grinned, gesturing with his arms as though he were delivering some grand speech.

“You have been reading too much of Jehan’s poetry.” Feuilly had commented dryly. For the moment, the Musain was vibrant and warm, alight with the good cheer of the joking friends. At the mention of his name Jehan had turned, the pink ribbon he always wore in his hair catching the light.

“No, he has been drinking with Grantaire and Bahorel.” Jehan’s words had attracted Enjolras’ attention.

“Is this a game to you?” The cheery atmosphere had seemed to dissipate with this simple question. Mouth dry, Grantaire swallowed.

“No, I-“ He had begun but his words caught in his throat, anything he could say fell flat under Enjolras’ dangerous stare.

“You can throw your life away as you see fit but do not drag others down with you.” Oh, how his heart had beat furiously, Enjolras’ eyes boring into his own. Everyone had waited with baited breath.

“I am not the one throwing my life away.” Grantaire had whispered, barely audible. The stormy, terrible sea came alive in Enjolras’ eyes. He'd stepped into the hurricane, arms wide and accepting.

“Why are you here? You care for nothing, you believe in nothing. Are you here to sabotage? Is all this amusing to you?” This scene was typical for most ABC society meetings; the group had long since become accustomed to the arguments which mostly consisted of Enjolras shouting while Grantaire stared. What made it significant was not any action or speech. It was the day that Grantaire realised he loved Enjolras. As the blessed object of such virtuous fury, he'd marvelled at every detail of the passion with which Enjolras preached. Every word cut through him, imbibing him with warmth. In short, this was the first time Grantaire could ever remember _feeling_ something. A single star in an empty void of emotion. This man had become his obsession, his life, his deity. He may have disregarded his cause as foolhardy, but lord did he love how Enjolras _believed_ in it, in ways that he never could.But for all his charisma and beauty and for all Grantaire’s worship, he was not a god; he was human. And he'd bled and died like one.

It was a gloomy day in Paris; the sun struggled against thick smoky clouds. Nothing as trivial as the weather even registered in Grantaire’s mind, every day was the same to him. His sun had gone out 4 months ago and plunged his world into darkness. A wandering drunk passed him whistling some tune or other and raised his bottle in greeting, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in Grantaire. There was none to be found. He looked upon the drunk with revulsion. This may seem hypocritical to most, but Grantaire’s loathing was not for the man or even for the drink, it was for himself. In every unwashed, rambling drunk he saw himself as he was before the barricade. He envied the man his drunken cheer. And he hated him.

The main streets were no place for him. They were loud and busy, full of markets, traders and wealth. He stood out, an unkempt beggar amongst honest folk drew attention. Attention was the last thing in the world he desired. He desired to fade away, to be invisible and alone with his grief. So he spent his days in the side and back alleys, with the poor and the sick and the criminal. The people Enjolras had sought to elevate, to free. Had he ever spent time in this grim underworld? Surely he hadn't. His passion came from theory drawn up with the most intelligent of minds. If he'd lived among the dregs of Paris, he could never have believed things could ever change. The thick fog of despair seeped into ever pore. A tramp lay dead, propped up against the wall. Around him, peasant children played, oblivious to the feasts at Versailles, to the existence of any life that could be better than the one they lived. That was the reality of the urban poor. Revolution was for dreamers.

Two urchin boys peered curiously up at Grantaire. The eldest couldn't have been older than 7, the younger around 5. He had grown accustomed to children fleeing at the sight of him, suspicious eyes disappearing into the shadows. Yet these boys stared openly and unafraid. They must have been not long on the streets. Their resemblance to Gavroche struck him, they had the same ebony air and skin but it was their expression that was most similar. Clever, appraising eyes that seemed unable to ever show fear. He stopped in his tracks.

“Excuse me, Monsieur. Are you one of those gypsies?” The younger piped up, not at all phased by the forwardness of the question. He was not the first to voice such a belief, most Parisians gathered this assumption after noticing Grantaire's dark skin and hair. 

“No, I'm not.”

“Oh…they're always kind to us!” The boy said brightly. “Other people aren't, they call us names and chase us away.” Their limbs were much thinner than those of other orphans. It was clear they hadn't adapted to street life. Only the fittest and most cunning children survived, there was no place for innocence amongst the lowest of the low. Grantaire estimated they'd be dead in a month, at most.

“Do you have parents?” The elder boy shook his head.

“They threw us out. There was a boy who took care of us but he went out one night and never came back.” He should walk away, the wheel of fortune reaped where it pleased and these boys were at its mercy.  But something stopped him. He was no Enjolras, he couldn't inspire the hopeless with a word or build barricades stretching toward the sky through belief alone. But maybe he could do one last bit of good.

“Here.” He said, pulling handfuls of scrunched paper notes out of his pocket. “Take this.” The boys stared in disbelief as Grantaire handed them all of the remaining money Marius had given him. Perhaps they'd do his kindness more justice than Grantaire had. That gave him another idea.

“Can either of you read?” He asked. The elder boy nodded. Grantaire pulled a broken pen from his pocket and scrawled an address on the boy’s hand. “Go to this address and tell Baron Pontmercy that I sent you. He’ll look after you.” The boys didn't take their eyes off the money, dazed by the sheer amount, likely more than they'd ever seen in their lives.

“Are you rich?” The younger boy asked in wonder. Grantaire snorted at his naïveté.

“Well not anymore. Run along then.” He shooed them away, watching them disappear with all of his alcohol money. He'd just changed more in real life than Enjolras’ revolution ever did. Who'd have thought it? He settled on the floor and looked to the dreary sky. Isn’t that what he'd told Enjolras over and over? That he would change nothing?  Oh, how he hated to be right.

Sobriety was beginning to itch in his mind, his vision clearer than it had been in months. Years, even. Memories he’d fought so hard to suppress were bubbling up, dragging him into dark recesses of his mind. Oh God what had he done? He needed that money. The shadows on his wall wouldn’t let him sleep. He stayed awake for hours that night, wrestling with ‘what ifs’ and ‘should haves’; blood drying under his fingernails. Without drink to put his mind at rest, it worked overtime. Well Enjolras, he thought dryly, it looks like drink won’t kill me after all. Every night he’d stumbled home, sleeping a little deeper than the last, longing for the day that he’d never wake up. He’d thrown that away on two random orphans he encountered in the street. What could he do now? Was he cursed as Tithonus, withering away in an unbearable life, wishing, above all, for it to end? A man suffering eternal life condemned to love a man suffering eternal youth. Enjolras was Achilles, never meant to grow old, always bound to die in a blaze of heroism. He smiled, imagining Enjolras, old and wrinkly, knocking on the gates of Versailles with a cane, demanding they feed the poor. His chiselled features lost to the cruel grasp of time. Grantaire would still be there, following behind, hanging on to his every word. The gaping chasm in his chest ached unbearably. They were never meant for that life. Grantaire envied Patroclus, he never had to live a day without his love. Why couldn’t he have died on that table in Corinth, Enjolras the last sight to carry him to his grave? If he’d have known then that it was to be the last time he ever heard his voice, what would he have said? Would he have wept, buried his face in Enjolras’ chest, and begged him to stay? Would he have pinned a rosette to his chest and vowed to die beside him?

“You are incapable of believing or thinking or willing or dying.” He’d spat, hatred in his eyes and his words. They’d had hit Grantaire like a punch to the gut, his joke dying in the air. With his last living breath he’d promised Enjolras that he’d prove him wrong. But he couldn’t even die right. Drink had spared him from the grave and ensured he’d never see his friends live again.

“I’m sorry.” He said, wishing that they could hear him. His hovel was empty tonight, he couldn’t convince himself even for a moment that they were somehow there. He stared into the void but no-one stared back; they were gone, his mirror reflected only him. The droplets of rain that coursed down the window fell erratically and randomly, there were no ghostly figures in the glass. He was alone, truly.

“Oh God, I beg of you. Let me die. You have left me so long to struggle alone that I am become death. I feel and see only him, I cannot take it anymore!” He screamed his prayers into the air, his voice hoarse and broken. He’d never believed in any God that could allow such suffering but he had to believe that _somehow,_ Enjolras was still there, that he would see him again one day.

Midnight cast Corinth in a subdued flavour, it’s streets as dark and empty as Grantaire felt inside. The streetlights had been irreparably damaged in June, there was nothing to breach the darkness. Even the stars were unwilling to shine on Grantaire, they were cold and distant. So he groped blindly through the dark. His pockets were empty but he still sought that table in the Huchélop’s tavern. For the first time since he’d started going there, he found it occupied. Booming laughter sprang from inebriated lips; there was a group of students at the table. All young men, neatly dressed, sharing bottles of wine and joyous conversation, on a table that was no longer empty. Grantaire turned to leave, but one young man in particular caught his attention. He had a striking profile, his dark sideburns were trimmed to a fine point and his moustache curled neatly below a large, straight nose. As though he sensed Grantaire’s gaze, he turned his head and their eyes met. There weren’t many things Grantaire could remember about the officer that spared his life, he had been too caught in his waking nightmare. But he remembered soft brown eyes full of pity and regret. And they were looking right at him.

Rough hands shoved him against the wall, the first physical contact he’d had in a long time.

“You should not be here!” The man growled, his face inches away. He let him fall to the cold ground and stepped away, gathering his strength to confront the ghost of his past.

“Where else would I go? There is nothing for me.” Grantaire croaked, pushing himself onto his knees.

“You would survive! God granted you mercy.” Grantaire scoffed. The army officer stood alone at midnight in a darkened alley beside a rowdy tavern, next to a forlorn madman who, in the absence of any tears left to cry, could only laugh.

“Monsieur, if there was such thing as benevolent God, I would have died that day.” Grantaire choked out, his laugh harsh and empty. The officer looked down at this broken man, all his certainty leaking like blood from a gaping wound. Sparing Grantaire’s life was the only thing that had allowed him to forgive himself for what he had done. The screams of schoolboys still rang in his dreams, their blood permanently stained into his Christian hands. That damned revolution that began with a state funeral and ended in a mass pauper’s grave. But his illusion of mercy was falling apart in front of him.  

“I held your life in my hands! You are alive because of me, you should be thankful.” He spat.

“Yes, you held my life in your hands. And you dropped him in the mud at my feet.” Grantaire stayed kneeling, staring up at the officer with accusing eyes.

“What could I have done? Spared him?”

“No, you should have killed me. You say you are capable of mercy, prove it. Rectify your mistake,” Grantaire pleaded, weary and desperate. He waited. The officer made no movement. 

"I cannot. I will not take any more innocent lives," he whispered, his voice cracked and broken, "I see them as I sleep. All those boys, they could have been my brothers." They held eye contact, two gazes heavy with regret and loss silently understanding the other's pain. Grantaire broke the silence, his voice soft. 

"I am with them once again as I dream, only to be ripped away in waking. I would rather join them forever in slumber than struggle alone another day in life." His friends waited for him, anywhere or nowhere. But he could not bear to be wherever they were not. 

"You are too young to be this weary of life," the soldier observed. Grantaire gave a hollow chuckle, the mirth never reaching his eyes. He knew that a long time ago. 

"So are you. But this is our lot, is it not? The world is done with me, as I am with it. My presence is awaited elsewhere, I pray they have saved me some wine." In spite of everything, he gave a small smile, unable to hate the man in front of him. The officer’s feet twitched, longing to run away; but there was no way he could live in the knowledge that this man was suffering. He drew his pistol with trembling hands and cocked it. Grantaire’s eyes were closed, his lips moving in silent prayer. The barrel of the pistol rattled an inch from his forehead.

“Lord forgive me.” The officer whispered. Just as he was about to shoot, Grantaire’s eyes opened. He hesitated. Grantaire smiled, his expression full of sweetness and adoration. He looked not at the officer or the gun, but at the empty air beside him.

Enjolras clasped Grantaire’s hand, his expression serene and full of a softness Grantaire could scarce remember. A softness he reserved only for his friends, when he was particularly proud of them. Whenever Courfreyac announced an idea, whenever Combeferre shaped it into something more reasonable. When Jehan spoke to a crowd, when Feuilly brought more and more workers to their cause. When Joly was breathless with excited passion, describing his vision even while leaning on his cane. When Bossuet and Bahorel took a break from drinking and jesting, just as passionate and determined as the rest. When Gavroche showed more bravery than any of them. This warm expression was directed at him, he had the acceptance he’d longed for. Enjolras was finally proud of the drunk he’d scorned. Grantaire smiled with him, tears rolling down his face.

“Come with me.” Enjolras sang, in a voice of holy light. “It’s time for you to come home.”

No-one heard the last gunshot at the fallen barricade.

 

The corner table was empty the next day. At first, no-once noticed but steadily, more and more people stole glances to that corner, wondering where the ghost of café Musain had gone.

“Probably dead in an alley somewhere.” A portly man with a walrus moustache announced to the barman. “That's the fate for those types of people. No less than they deserve.” The barkeep nodded but made no reply. Most patrons shared the sentiment. Good for nothing, old drunk, street rat. Not one person seemed to treat him as a fellow human. After a couple of days, the corner table was filled. The sombre spell cast by his resident ghoul was gone. Any barkeep should be happy. But he could only picture dead eyes, so out of place on one so young. That night, after closing up the Musain, he sat in that abandoned chair and crossed himself.

“May you find peace in the next life.” He wished. “God knows you couldn't find it here.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to come yell 'how dare you' at me, my tumblr is:  
> elektra-natchos.tumblr.com  
> I know, I deserve it.


End file.
